Miss Cornelia, obedient to the detective’s instructions, promptly told the whitest of fibs for Lizzie’s benefit.
“The maid will show you to your room now and you can make yourself comfortable for the night.” There—that would mislead Lizzie, without being quite a lie.
“My toilet is made for an occasion like this when I’ve got my gun loaded,” answered Anderson carelessly. The allusion to the gun made Lizzie start nervously, unhappily for her, for it drew his attention to her and he now transfixed her with a stare.
“This is the maid you referred to?” he inquired. Miss Cornelia assented. He drew nearer to the unhappy Lizzie.
“What’s your name?” he asked, turning to her.
“E-Elizabeth Allen,” stammered Lizzie, feeling like a small and distrustful sparrow in the toils of an officious python.
Anderson seemed to run through a mental rogues gallery of other criminals named Elizabeth Allen that he had known.
“How old are you?” he proceeded.
Lizzie looked at her mistress despairingly. “Have I got to answer that?” she wailed. Miss Cornelia nodded—inexorably.
Lizzie braced herself. “Thirty-two,” she said, with an arch toss of her head.